Treacherous Rose
by Proserpine
Summary: Mozol, Rakli slave of Bexhet and daughter of the fille de joie Lourdes, has never seen the sun. But when tragedy forces her from the only home she’s ever known, she must discover a way to survive...even if it means going against the King of Thunes himse


Treacherous Rose

Treacherous Rose

By Proserpine

_My name is Mozol. It means "black currant" in the Romany tongue, though I am neither, at least fruit-wise. It is my eyes that are black, black and as bottomless as one of Gitana's big cooking cauldrons, perhaps more. But I am no Gypsy.That much is apparent, for my hair is a lustrous dark, fiery red, and my skin pale as the gaji's.__ _

_I used to deny that fact furiously, rub my face raw with dirt and mud, blacken it with coal dust, anything to blend in, make myself inconspicuous. To no avail, of course. There is no hiding the cygnet among ducklings, or the wolf among sheep. Nay, nor the gaji__ amongst Gypsies. _

_My Roma__ mother's name was also Mozol (making for some hilarious confusion, let me assure you) –I say **was**__, for she is not with us anymore. She departed in the winter of '86, the worst winter I can remember, though true there have been worse still--if not physically, then emotionally. She was forty then, not a frail woman by any means, strapping and boisterous with the rest of them, and they loved her for it. Some say she went out a-purpose, with a wild look in her eyes, and none could stop her—but no one talks about that anymore, and if they do, they say it was I who killed her, however inadvertently. But I choose not to remember that, if it was true. So instead, I remember the good things—her eyes mostly, I think, because they were as walnut-brown as my own, and always mischievous. But it was Bexhet who had the firm hand in their relationship, though he was fifteen years her junior but no less her equal. He took her death hard, and sometimes I think he, my Rom father, was more miserable than I, the cuckoo's child. My father? Hah! I spit on the word! For I have none._

My parents. Who were they? Ghost and demon, Minotaur and angel, elf and succubus? At times Bexhet spoke of my mother, my blood mother, my true mother, but only after a good, hot meal and far too much to drink. I used to live for those moments, when her memory rose out of the fire, flame of hair and gargantuan of height. But it is not what I live for anymore. Nay, why, should I mourn for a woman who does not exist? Why curry for the favor of a mother one has never met? Those very questions, torn from my veriest core, would return to haunt me later in life. But spoken from the heart of a disillusioned child, I had no foreshadowing of the future, nor did I care to. I suppose my natural curiosity in regards to the two of them had been stifled by the fact that I was denied even the tiniest step outside the Court--and I never questioned such judgement. How could it be mine to give? Nae, it was the command of Clopin, King of Thunes, Clopin whom I adored even as a young child. I imagine I would have grown to visit his bed, had not the gods possessed a cruel sense of irony…

***

I dodged Bexhet's drunken swipes with a practiced ease, throwing small obstacles in his path, like pebbles, and wincing as the latter ricocheted off Mozol the Deceased's precious pottery. I would not lose this battle, I promised myself. I was fifteen now, and sure of my hard-won independence, however small the victory had been. My world was the Court of Miracles; my home was the tent in which I now scuttled from the heavy hands of my guardian and master. I made sure not to brush against the walls of the tent with any part of my body, lest the rustling alert any other to the turmoil within. Bexhet liked to keep up appearances, and I indulged him, for I knew worse would come if I even hinted at disobedience. I sidestepped a particularly large vase—hard to do in all the clutter, but by this time I was adept at it—and was caught unawares as Bexhet grabbed me from behind. His breath hot on the back of my neck, I closed my eyes as he twisted my arm behind me, blocking out the pain.

"Mozol..." he enunciated roughly, and I knew I would sooner die than beg. "Are you sorry, my little _Rakli ? " I shook my head violently, and he cuffed me. "Bring me the drink. " He commanded thickly, shoving me away from him, and I crashed into the vase, sending it to the cobblestones with a clatter, and cracks spreading down its side like spiderwebs. Nervously, I righted the vase, hoping he had not glimpsed the proof of my accident, and commenced to rifle through the tent, but with a growing apprehension realized that there was no more ale, nor wine, nor mead--anywhere! I would have to go out (how I cringed at the thought, but which was worse--here--or there?) and ask around for more. _

"Bexhet? " I whispered, eyes downcast. "There is none. " 

He swore vehemently at me, striking me and tossing a few coins my way. I caught them gingerly, for fifteen years with him had taught me much. He could change his mind in an instant, and then where would I be? Quickly I darted out of the tent, giving him a wide berth. Out in the alley created by the chaotic maze of tents, my country and my city, my fields and my streams, dared I to exhale a breath of relief. Gingerly I touched my arm, pulling up my ragged sleeve to inspect the darkening bruise. I did not have to touch the newest bruise, just under my neckline, to know it was there. I only thanked the powers that be that it did not sting like those before it had. Bexhet always did know how to hit so the marks barely showed. I let the sleeve drop then, and hurried market-wards without a single glance back to what—and whom—I had left behind. 

***

I scurried behind the various stalls and booths that made up the heart of the Court, my head bowed, my eyes downcast. So I did not see him before it was too late, before we both toppled to the cobblestones in sea of red hair and jangling bells. Surely he mistook me for another, for there were many gajes in the Court, though few with red hair. "My liege!" I cried, panic-stricken, brushing him off and keeping my head bowed in respect. 

"Do I know you?" he asked, hand under my chin, and his eyes met mine, searchingly, even reproachfully. Clopin whom I adored, reproachful? I almost wept with the pain of it. 

"I am Mozol, sla--er, foster daughter of Bexhet Honin." The label was false upon my tongue. "I beg your pardon for my clumsiness, your majesty."

"Oh. You." His voice is dismissive. No doubt he had been bored to death with the rumors Bexhet allowed to spread about my supposed disobedience and my wild, wayward, wicked ways. "Run along, girl." His voice was distracted, and I could see his hunger to put a distance between us. "I trust this will not happen again?" His words were foolhardy, and I was clumsy. 

"You trust aright." But I was lying, and both of us knew it.

***

I lingered, as I was apt to do, to listen to the gossip of the other girls, who excluded me apurpose. One, my enemy Luminitsa, a beauty with long dark hair and rich brown eyes like cocoa, was cooing over the boys, one in particular, whose face was hidden from my view. The rest were largely being ignored, and as soon as they saw me their sullen expressions melted away. 

This time, however, with one jug balanced upon my head and another under my arm, suspiciously solicitous boys suddenly surrounded me. But I recalled with some relaxation that if my only way out of slavery was marriage, Clopin could not save me from Bexhet, no matter how much I wished it. No, these boys were the keys to that, and I was quite--_quite--willing to be unlocked. _

"_Bolde tut. " [Please you pass] I said, eyes flicking over them, dismissing one or the other, comparing them to the only man I dreamed of. But they did not move as they were supposed to, instead closed in, grinning at each other and at me. One put a hand on my arm, and I had to grit my teeth, forcing myself not to wince. _

"You should not have to carry that alone," he said, and smiled. He was not blindingly handsome, but passable. He was thick and muscular like an ox, with golden-brown eyes, and he took the jug under my arm easily, companionably, daring the other boys with his actions to mock us. None did. In fact, it was like he had some sort of supremacy over them, their leader in a way. "Where to?"

"Why, the tent of Bexhet Honin." I replied. "Do you not know me, then?" I swept a mocking hand down before my being. _His Rakli slave? _

"No..." he grinned, and he let his accent thicken considerably. "For I fear I am a stranger in the Court. You, a _Rakli, are also a stranger. So now we can be strangers together, and not feel so much alone."_

"But...but I have lived here all my life!" I protested, fighting to ignore the snickers of the other boys, who had followed us. He silenced them with a glare, and they scattered. 

"Yet you are not one of them." He began to hurry off, and I increased my pace to stay abreast of him. He kept at a brisk trot, moving swiftly towards the scaffold, a fact which I largely ignored until it was too late. We kept up a lively conversation--he of half-truths shadowed by symbolism and dripping with deep imagination, I of none except the deliberate secret of my slavery. He, too, was fifteen, a fact I found harder to accept than his proven intelligence, yet he was not as inquisitive as he must have been on the inside, kindly keeping his questions at bay. "You're the nicest person I've met since I arrived," he confessed, and I hid a smile. Me! Nice! That was a new one! 

"Where are you from, monsieur?" I demurred, setting the jugs down with an intent to wipe my brow. That was when he caught me by the waist, and kissed me full upon the mouth. "Oh…Oh dear."

"Didn't you like it?" he whispered huskily, and kissed me again, tongue delving, hands moving slowly and surely between my legs. 

"Too much, monsieur." I replied, struggling to get ahold of my breath. But I did not push him away. 

Much to my folly. And oh, how that folly, sweet folly, would cost me!

Author's Notes: This is the sequel to my piece, _La Fille de Joie_, which can be found under the name Lourdes on FFN. I am she and she is me and we are all together—Jocetta, Lourdes, Proserpine. The Hunchback of Notre Dame is a Disney movie, and also a book by Victor Hugo. I will be incorporating elements from both in this piece. Enjoy! J


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